


We Won

by magnuspr1m3



Series: Marvel Oneshots [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Brain Injury, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Peter Feels, Superfamily (Marvel), The Serum Fixes Everything, Tony Angst, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, amnesiac steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5557796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnuspr1m3/pseuds/magnuspr1m3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony is struggling. Three months after losing Steve, and it feels like his life is leaving him behind somehow. He turns to the only thing he can think of: booze. While Tony is coping with his broken heart, someone else is trying to decipher the past he can't remember and recover from some sort of... accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Won

**Author's Note:**

> *IF YOU HAVEN'T READ WHAT WE LOST, READ THAT FIRST. THIS WILL MAKE NO SENSE OTHERWISE.* Anyway, thanks. If you liked how What We Lost ended, don't read this. If you find a horrible grammatical error or spelling mistake, please, let me know.

It had been a difficult three months for Tony. He had been busy helping Peter recover from Crossbones' attack, and then planning Steve’s memorial service. And that was all in the first five days. After that, Tony had spent endless hours in meeting after meeting with congress, finding no real closure from it all. “We offer our condolences, but…” He was tired of it all. He wanted it to end. He wanted to go back to the tower and just curl up with Steve, but that could not happen.

And then Nick Fury decided to retire (although he technically was already) from his position as Deputy Director (someone else had taken over?) of SHIELD. Which led to another series of meetings with congress, who knew very well that Stark Industries was funding the remaining SHIELD efforts, and wanted a say in who was the new Deputy Director. Tony had honestly just planned on throwing Hill back in the position. Wasn’t like she couldn’t handle it. She had previously held that position for years. It only made sense to put her back there.

But no, those fucking baboons in DC had another idea. They wanted _him_ to run it, all of SHIELD. They wanted him to kick out the current director (who he did not even know, which was mildly problematic – mildly), and just throw himself into the position. They were absolutely fucking nuts. He still handled a lot with SI, even if he was not the CEO anymore. And he did a lot of R &D for the Avengers as well as for SI. He did not have time, not with a depressed nineteen year old and everything else.

Peter was actually the one who told him to take the job. “Steve would’ve wanted you to do it. He’d probably have said yes for you.”

Which was more than true. He knew it. But he also knew that were Steve still alive, he would not be getting this job offer; Steve would. And he would have done a brilliant job of it. No one was more meant to lead than Steve Rogers. Steve just had this uncanny ability to get people to want to follow him, just by existing. People just liked him. Tony would say he had no clue why, but he did. They were all of the same reasons that Tony loved the super soldier. All of those things that Steve refused to see in himself: his bravery, compassion, loyalty, and moral compass that always pointed straight and true. It was like Steve actually stepped right out of one of those comic books. He was larger than life.

But, they wanted Tony Stark, textbook narcissist with a severe case of PTSD to take over. And so he would, if only to make Steve proud.

(The fact that Rumlow was in SHIELD custody had nothing to do with it. Nope. Not at all.)

So, Tony took over as Deputy Director of SHIELD, which was currently being run from the Avengers compound in upstate New York. It was… Refreshing, in a way, to get away from New York City and the Tower, where all he ever saw was Steve, everywhere he looked. Tony was thankful that he had not spent much time here with Steve. He probably would have just turned down the job entirely for that reason if he had.

Peter moved with Tony to the compound, partially to stay with the only little bit of family he had left, but largely because he missed the team. He was still going through some mild physical therapy because of some of the bad breaks his bones had suffered, but he hoped to start getting back into the Avenging business. “New York City doesn’t need me anymore. There are other people here. Matt can handle it, I’m sure.” He had insisted as he stumbled about the room and packed his things. Which was Peter code for, “I’m tired of the memories here, too, please, let’s leave.”

It was nice being around the team again, if a tad odd. Rhodey and Sam had apparently struck up some odd friendship in Tony’s time away from the team, which was only mildly surprising. Ex-military people almost seemed to flock together, especially as Avengers. Wanda and Vision were almost always around each other, which was extremely surprising. Tony had definitely not seen that coming. Vision had greeted Tony with that British accent he so missed hearing around the tower, and Tony immediately knew he had made the right choice. He needed to be here, he thought to himself as Peter went and laughed with Sam and Scott about _something_. T’Challa even came to greeted them, although Tony knew the man to generally be quiet and keep to himself. Clint, Bucky, and Natasha all hung back, waiting for the initial rush of excited greeting to end before coming forward and greeting Tony, each with a sad smile on their face.

“It’s good to have you back, Stark.” Barton said softly, and it was.

Tony belonged there.

.   .   .

He always had a headache. The kind man in the suit said it would pass soon enough. Something about healing, and gunshots. He had trouble keeping up, along with other things. While he could talk, he had a horrid stutter. His hands shook when he used them, and his legs refused to cooperate at all. The physical therapy was helping, slowly.

Nothing was helping his memory, though.

Another side effect of his injury, the man – Phil, he had said – would always say. And it was annoying him a bit. They claimed he suffered this terrible head injury, but he had no scarring. The only way he could tell were the obvious side effects from said head injury. Which seemed to be the root of all of his problems. It infuriated him, feeling so helpless and lost. He hated that this was his life. He hated being confined to a bed when he was not in physical therapy, the only thing left to entertain him some weird thing called a kindle he could read on.

He voiced this annoyance to Phil one day. “I need s-something… To do.” He had stumbled over the words, making him angrier at the situation he had found himself in. “I c-c-can’t just sit here.”

Phil gave him this sad little look. “You never were one to just laze around, Captain. Unfortunately, there is not much I can do. Doctors don’t want you up too much until you’re walking properly by yourself.” And if that was not a slap in the face, he did not know what was. “You need to rest in order to recover.” Phil insisted, patting his hand where it gripped the rail of the bed tightly. “There are people out there waiting for you.”

That certainly got his attention. His hand fell from the rail (which was dented now, but Phil told him later that it was nothing to worry about). No one had mentioned anyone might be waiting for him. Of course, it made sense that _someone_ would be worried for him. He had to have a family, somewhere out there. He just could not remember them. Which was saddening, but Phil knew them. Phil talked to them, maybe Phil could bring them there.

“I want to see them.”

Phil’s sad look shifted a bit, lips quirking up at the edges as he dipped one of his hands into his pocket. “I’m sure you do. But not yet. Get better, and I’ll bring them here. I promise. For now, though, I’ll see about getting you some drawing supplies. You used to enjoy drawing.” The man took his hand out of his pocket and dropped something in his hand, patting it before leaving.

“You didn’t stutter that time,” Phil added over his shoulder as he left, but he did not notice. He was too entranced by what Phil had given him.

A simple, gold wedding band.

.   .   .

Tony almost dropped his coffee mug when he walked into the new director’s office. Not because of the heinous rug, that honestly, if he did drop his coffee on it, would look a hundred times better. Not even because of the rather bland, black walls. No, he nearly dropped his coffee because sitting there, smiling like a smug bastard behind the desk, was Agent. Uh, Phil. Agent Phil Coulson. Who was supposed to be dead. Died years ago, actually.

“I’ve obviously gone insane.” He muttered, just staring at the man. He did not move from the doorway, a million different emotions washing over him then. A million thoughts and questions he wanted to ask. But there was one that stuck out to him, one singular thought that spurned on hope in his chest.

_If they could bring back Coulson, maybe they could bring back Steve, too._

Granted, they probably did not wait three months to bring Coulson back. Steve was probably a bit too expired to be revived. But that brief little glimmer of hope in his gut, of life… It was enough to keep him from throwing his coffee in the bastard’s face.

“I think that happened at least a decade ago, Stark.” Phil commented, still with that smug grin on his face. Tony wanted to hit him, would have, honestly, if he still was not so shocked. “I was only dead for eight seconds. My recovery was the difficult part. Fury saw it fit to keep my survival a secret for the time being.” The new director explained, motioning for Tony to take a seat in the leather chair before his desk. “By the time he was ready to tell your team about my survival, SHIELD had collapsed and he was dead.”

“Also a lie,” Tony said immediately, not even thinking about that first encounter in the barn on Clint’s farm. And Steve and Natasha had known that Fury was alive the whole time, too! And Hill! Now this? Steve better not have known this. Tony would kill himself just to get back at him.

And that was not a healthy thought, one that led to darker thoughts he quickly shoved aside because Agent Director was speaking again.

“-everything that happened recently, you can’t complain too much about hiding his survival. Or mine.” Phil said. “Both out of necessity.” Tony made a face, because that was shit in his opinion. But his opinion did not matter for this, apparently. “Would you like to see him? He’s been asking about you.”

That threw Tony for bit of a loop, but he was unsurprised. Fury and he had a sort of odd, creepy one-eyed uncle/rebellious nephew sort of relationship. He shrugged, not really sure how to answer that question. “Uh, sure. Yeah. Why not? When, though? I know I’m pretty booked, meeting-wise, for the next few days.” He said, which was unfortunately true.

Phil smiled a bit, nodding. “Of course. It won’t be until next week, probably. He is gonna be extremely occupied with physical therapy this week.” Which seemed odd to Tony, because Fury’s injury was years ago. But, Fury was old. Who knew? “He’d probably like to see Peter, too. I’m sure he won’t mind skipping training for that.”

“Skip training?” Tony snorted in amusement. “It’ll be his first time training in months this week. I’m sure, come next week, he’ll be glad to have an excuse to take a break.” Which had always been true before, when Peter first joined the Avengers. He would go through the training exercises, but always had some excuse beforehand as to why he had to be elsewhere; Steve never let that slide, though.

"Especially this one." Agent said, and his smile was honestly a bit creepy now. But Tony would leave it be for now. God knew what all the guy was capable of after being brought back from the dead. “I’ll let him know that you guys will be visiting. Will probably do him some good. He’s been getting antsy recently.”

Tony snorted at that. He had just seen Fury a week ago. What did he have to be antsy about? “Give the old man the puzzles from the Sunday paper. I’m sure that’ll keep him occupied for a bit.”

Phil chuckled a bit, "I tried that, actually. He just drew little pictures in the blank spaces. Which has been helping his fine motor skills, actually.” Phil stood from his desk, Tony watching as the man went to snag a newspaper from a side table. He passed it to Tony, and the engineer froze for a moment.

The doodles were very Steve. As in, Tony had seen Steve draw the shield enough times to know when a doodle of it was drawn by Steve. What sort of sick joke were Coulson and Fury pulling on him? He balled the paper up, glaring at the Director as he stood abruptly. “What is that?” He snarled, tossing it down. “What. Is. That. What sort of sick joke are you trying to pull?” Phil looked oddly confused for a bit, watching Tony as he ran a hand through his hair. “Th-those are Steve’s!” He pointed accusingly at the bundle of paper. “ _I know those pictures!_ ”

The agent frowned some, “Of course they are.”

Which was more than enough for Tony, who fled at the somber, pitying look Coulson gave him. He was starting to get better. He was, honestly. He did not cry himself to sleep anymore (because he worked until his body gave up on him and he passed out from exhaustion). He could go about his morning routine (talking to the empty space beside him as if Steve were there).  He was better.

(He was not. He was worse. His chest ached no matter how much medication he took, and he had completely wrecked their bedroom in a drunken fit of sadness. Oh, and he was drinking. Drinking and spiraling back down that vortex into the void of Tony pre-Steve, and he did not want to be that again. He did not want to live without Steve, but here he was. Without Steve. He wanted to die.)

.   .   .

He was married.

The ring had a little engraving on the inside of it. “Property of Stark Industries.” He imagined it was a joke with his partner. He felt it anytime it brushed against his finger, a barely there whisper of sensation. He moved the ring almost obsessively on his finger, having put it on after studying it for a long moment. It felt right, there on his hand. A welcomed weight that held him in the now. He did not remember who slipped it on his hand the first time, but they were still out there. They still loved him, hopefully.

And they were close. Or, how Phil talked about them implied that they were nearby. He never mentioned their name, but he did talk about their son. “Peter. He’s nineteen. You guys adopted him.” Steve listened with rapt attention as Phil told him all about Peter, who liked robotics but had chosen to major in genetics in college instead. He talked about Steve taking Peter to baseball games, or the whole family going on vacations.

Then he told him about Peter helping him get his partner clean. They were apparently a really bad alcoholic, and had almost died after having a panic attack and drinking an obscene amount of liquor. “We had all been trying to get him to quit for years. You and Peter somehow swung it. God knows he needed it. You gave him a reason to quit.”

 _Him_. That was the first actual thing Phil had let slip about his partner – husband. Phil had been very specific in not telling him anything about him. And he had asked plenty. Phil had only ever responded with, “Ask him when you see him.” Which drove him completely nuts, because when would he be allowed to see him? He could not even get out of his bed some days without help! It was impossibly frustrating. They said he was getting better at an impossibly quick rate, but it did not seem like it. It still felt like forever. Whatever had injured him – whoever, because the way Phil talked about it there was a very guilty whoever – had essentially been ruining his life for three months now.

“When-n can I see him? You’ve b-b-been keeping me almost com-completely isolated!” He complained, struggling to do so but continuing on all the same. He was tired of being alone all of the time, especially when _his family_ was out there.

Phil gave him that little smile that was slowly driving him insane. “Continue to improve, and I’ll bring them here.” And then Phil had left him alone again.

So he put more effort into getting better. He insisted on physical therapy sessions every day, longer ones. “I can handle it,” He said when the therapist tried to hazard him against pushing his limits. He could. He knew it, knew he was stronger than this. And he got better. He got so much better, actually able to get up and walk around on his own with just a cane to help him. He made impossible amounts of progress, according to the doctors, in such a short time.

The only thing that was still an issue was his damn stutter.

"It could never go away," One of the doctors who saw him had explained. "Sometimes, these things happen. You fell and hit your head, giving yourself a severe concussion. We could not wake you up, though, no matter how we tried, so you developed a stutter.”

“Y-you should-d-d’ve tried harder.” He ground out, because they should have. The “we could not” was just an excuse, a way to admit that they had given up on him. They had not thought he would make it, had probably told his husband he would not. Which would explain why he had not visited. If he had been told the love of his life was going to die, he honestly would have been there constantly, but he could understand not wanting to see them in that state; see him in that state.

He was better now, though. He was going to survive. So he asked Phil again. “When can I see them?”

This time Phil grinned outright. “They can come by next week. Finish your physical therapy this week, and then you can spend next week with them. I promise.”

.   .   .

Wanda found him in his drunken stupor a few nights later. He was hunched over on his bed, second bottle of scotch half-empty in his hands. His head was tilted back against the headboard, his shirt collar soaked from spilled booze and sorrow. He ignored the shake of his shoulders or the occasional hiccup that left him with the trails of saline on his face. Saline. Not tears, no. Tears implied an inability to move on, implied being wedged in the past. He refused to be seen like that, to be weak. He was not weak. Not even a little bit.

“No one was calling you weak, Stark,” came the thickly accented voice. Tony’s head lolled to the side, and he snorted. He saw the saddened look she gave him, equal parts pity and rage. Rage? Why would she possibly be mad at him? He did nothing- “You’re drunk.” Her tone was impossibly dry as she stared at him with her arms crossed.

“How would the captain feel knowing you were drinking again? He considered quitting when you had alcohol poisoning before.” She said simply, which threw him for a loop. “Did you not know? The man would have gladly given up everything to see you better and happy. Not this.” She made a general gesture with her hand, flicking her fingers on the upward motion and casting the bottle of scotch from his hold and setting it gently out of his reach.

“Pull yourself together.” Her voice turned sharp, that red glow in her irises frightening as her hands remained out. “You are ruining his sacrifice, throwing it away!”

_She was right._

Tony was a mess. Steve would have hated to see him like this, and he was very glad that he could not. Not that Steve would have left him in this state. Steve would have stayed by his side and helped him break this again just because it was what Steve did. No matter how many times Tony had fucked up over the years (which amounted to way too many times), Steve had stood by him; through Ultron, alcoholism, and various tantrums, Steve was there. For every shove Tony had thrown his way initially to get Steve to see reason, that Tony did not deserve him, Steve stayed with him and gave him two different reasons that Tony deserved him and more.

And there he was, drowning himself in scotch. He hated himself.

Wanda finally brought her arms back to her sides, that red glow fading. “You forget that we all lost him that day; he was your lover, but our friend. We are hurting, too.” He opened his mouth to say that he knew that, he had not forgotten but she shot him a look. “You have. You threw the memorial and then locked yourself away from us, from your friends. We tried to reach out to you, all of us. And you just ignored us!

“You think you are the only one to feel a loss so deeply?” She practically snarled the question at him. He did the smart thing for once and did not answer with a snarky remark, watching as her expression started to break. “I lost my twin, my actual other half. I felt him get pulled away from me. And I had wished to die with him. I had thought to myself, ‘I will die here’. I had intended to stay on that city and let myself evaporate with it, and would have done so were it not for Vision.” Which was a depressing thought, but Tony understood. God, did he understand. If he had been there, been near Steve when he was shot, Tony would have either killed Rumlow, or died trying. Quite possibly both.

Wanda stepped further into the room, still a few feet from the bed. Tony could make out the crinkle at the edges of her eyes and the quiver of her chin as she forced her jaw to remain firmly set for a long moment. Her hands at her side were tightly balled, and he worried for a moment that she might lose it as she suddenly sucked it a breath, chest shuddering with the force of it. “He loved you, and you’re throwing that all away.”

“No, no-“

She cut him off, shouting. “Yes!” The light of the lamp on the bedside table flickered, startling him. He jerked back against the headboard, knocking his head against it and wincing. He rubbed the place as he saw Wanda struggle to control herself. Her eyes flashed red briefly. He had never seen her have trouble with her abilities, not in the whole (granted, relatively short) time he had known her.

Tony shifted on the bed, reaching out towards her. “Wanda?” His voice revealed how unsure he really was. He did not know her well. She generally went out of her way to ignore him, and he was not much better. Her powers were something Tony had not encountered before, and after the vision she showed him? He obviously had some trust issues. But to see her come and seek him out, to try and set him right again… It was something he had never expected. Neither was the loss of her trademark sense of control. “Wanda, I- I don’t know how to cope any other way.” And that was true. God, was it true. He had always turned to alcohol before, be he happy or sad or angry. Alcohol was the solution for him.

Then, along came Steve Rogers, who turned everything about Tony’s life on its head from the moment they met. Not to the same degree that he later would, of course, but he had. Steve had challenged him, had forced him to be greater than he was. Steve continued to raise the bar of what it meant to be a hero, and Tony had always responded by doing just that in return. Somehow, it had changed from being a better hero to being a better man, and it eventually became a challenge to be a better boyfriend, father, fiancé, and then husband. It got a bit twisted at points, and Tony lost sight of that new purpose, the need to do more. But Tony always found his way back to it – _to Steve and home_ – in the end. He sometimes just needed a little push in the right direction.

He figured that seeing Wanda lose her control from being so exasperated with him was that push.

“You will quit this.” Wanda ordered when she got herself back under control, forcing her back straight. “You will quit it, or Vision and I will find out, and we will tell Peter.” Which was honestly very terrifying. Peter was all he had left (he knew he was not really, but it seemed like that). “And we will make you go to rehab. Because I will not let you soil Steve’s memory like this, Stark. I won’t.” Her voice softened at the edges some as he pulled his hand back. “He loved you too much for this to happen.”

Tony choked out a broken, “I know.”

.   .   .

Peter found out anyway, which Tony should have seen coming. His son had slipped into his room while Tony was off in a meeting. For what reason, Tony would never know, because Peter had seemed to forget as well in his yelling at him. Tony had slipped into his office, loosening his tie and trying to ignore the sweat on the back of his neck. He had not even turned around completely when one of his empty scotch bottles had collided with the wall just to the right of the door, shattering and raining down upon him. Tony had startled, yelping when a shard of glass had nicked his cheek, and tried to shield the rest of his body from the bits of glass before turning to find Peter staring at him with a look of utter betrayal on his face. _Oh no. Oh god, no._

"Were you ever really clean?” Peter spat accusingly at him, and Tony tried his damnedest to ignore the tear stains on Peter’s cheek and the redness to his eyes. _You fucked up._ “Were you? Or was this all just a lie? Was it?” Peter looked at him expectantly, fidgeting about some before throwing his arms down by his sides in exasperation at Tony apparently not responding quickly enough. “ _Tell me!_ The truth, tell me! Did you ever quit? Did you even love _him_?”

That hurt. Tony found himself unable to stop himself from snapping back at Peter, one hand pressed firmly on the small cut on his cheek. “ _Of course I loved him!_ And I did fucking quit! I gave up so much for him! Because he did the same for me! I was clean, and then everything got terrible and he died and I saw no reason to stay clean!” Peter flinched away from that, eyes dropping down quickly and _oh_.

“Peter, I-“

He waved him off, eyes glued to his feet. “No, no, I get it. Really. You didn’t want to adopt me.” Which was not true, not at all, but for some reason Tony could not get the words out. He just stood there across the room from Peter, who refused to even look at him. “You were nice, but it was obvious Steve put you up to it.

_“I just wish I hadn’t thought you loved me, too.”_

Tony’s poor, weakened heart broke at that. He felt it plummet to the bottom of his stomach. Peter had always been insecure around people. The kid’s parents had just left him, no explanation. Of course Peter was worried about Tony actually wanting him. He had confessed to Steve (who later told Tony, clinging to him and wondering how someone could do that to their kid) that he used to think his parents left him because he was trouble. Not like Tony had a good track record with making how he felt about people known in a manner that was not extremely unorthodox. But he had thought he had long gotten Peter over his insecurities in regards to Tony. Seemed he was wrong.

There was a light rapping at the door behind Tony, and both him and Peter looked to it quickly. Peter was rubbing at his face with the sleeve of his jacket, turning around as Tony opened the door. He opened his mouth to tell whoever it was that they needed a minute, but stopped when he saw it was Phil, who was technically his boss now. Phil, who opened his mouth to say something but shut it the second he saw the cut on Tony’s face. Director-Agent’s expression warped into something else, hardening in an instant as he pushed passed Tony, dress shoes crunching the glass by the door. Blue eyes flicked from the glass to where Peter was trying to make himself invisible, snapping back to Tony after a long moment.

“He’s waiting, but maybe you shouldn’t see him today.” The director said firmly to Tony, and why was this thing with Fury still a thing? He opened his mouth to say something but found he was being yelled at once more. “After everything he has done for you, you started drinking again?! What is wrong with you, Stark?”

Tony was quite honestly more than a bit annoyed with all of this. He could barely get a word in edgewise with everyone around him jumping to (albeit, correct) conclusions. Not to mention he could already feel the withdrawals hitting. He did not need the drama. He did not want it. He just wanted Steve, wanted to curl up with him and never move, but he could not have that. He could never have that again.

“Fuck off, Phil.” He spat out, squaring his shoulders and standing as tall as he could. He would not let the director walk all over him, not in front of Peter (who he needed to have a long talk with, but later). “You can’t just come back from the dead and play at caring about _my family_. You’re supposed to be fucking dead, for crying out loud! Have been dead to us for years now, so you don’t have the right to come here and scold me like some damned child. If you wanted to care, you should have let us know you were alive back then! We mourned you, dammit! Steve signed those damned bloody trading cards and cried about it later! Clint did not speak to any of us for months _because he blamed himself for your death._ ” He could feel himself doing that thing he did when he started to break down, forward wrinkling as he bit the inside of one cheek. He would not let Phil see him lose it. He would not.

(It was a bit too late for that.)

 _"_ Th-those crazy loons… They’re my family. And you hurt them, hiding this from us.” Tony said, ignoring the tremble of his bottom lip. He ran a hand over his face, trying to push it away. He had to get his control back. He needed it. He felt his shoulders shake some, but he pushed it aside, forcing himself to take a deep breath. “You can’t just show up a-and try to fit back into our family like that. You left us.”

The three of them were all silent as Tony struggled to get his breathing in check. When had he started to hyperventilate? He had thought he was fine. He had to be fine. Tony took a staggering step back, pressing against the door. His chest felt like it was going to explode and he could not get his breathing to slow. His shoulders shook with his whole body, his hands balling into fists to try and still it. He slid down the door, landing in glass with a crunch, and brought his arms up, as if to shield his face and chest. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and _god please stop this please please stop this._

An arm slipped around his shoulders, and he tensed, ready to lash out. No. No, he did not want them to touch him _had to protect it had to keep it safe keep himself safe they could not touch it could not take it no no no_. He moved to push them away, a hand wrapping gently around his wrists. Brown eyes came into view, holding his hands from digging in his eyes again. _Peter_. It was Peter. Peter was trying to calm him. Peter did not hate him. He would not be doing that if he hated him.

“Breathe, Tony.” Peter said softly, still squeezing his wrists lightly. The teen took in a deep breath, doing it loudly. Tony focused in on the sound, forcing his lungs to mimic it. His chest spasmed, fighting against him but he carried on. “In…. And out. In… And out.” In and out. Tony could do that. Tony could breathe. “That’s good. You’re- you’re fine. We’re fine, okay? Just breathe.”

And Tony did.

Phil said nothing until Peter was gathering Tony up, the engineer hugging Peter impossibly tight for a long moment. He loved Peter. He did. And he would make it up to him. He would make it so Peter never questioned again that Tony did love him and think of him as his own son. But after he dealt with whatever it was Phil and Fury had planned.

“He is waiting for you both, if you’re ready.” Phil’s tone was much softer now, but his expression was still hard. “You may want to pack some clothes. I told him you guys could spend a few days at the care center with him, though.”

Which had Tony in a bad mood again, face scrunching in annoyance. Who did Phil think he was? “Why would I want to spend a few days with Fury? I have work to do.” He grumbled, rolling his eyes.

That hard expression fell some, the briefest glint of confusion on Phil’s face. “Fury? What does this have to do with Fury?” He blinked, and now Tony was doubly confused. “I was talking about Steve. He’s walking again. The shot didn’t do permanent damage to his spine, thankfully. The serum is partially to thank. He…”

Tony zoned out, though. He was busy trying to wrap his head around _Steve. Steve alive. Steve recovering. No permanent damage. Steve. Steve._

(He would later threaten Peter with dish duty for a month after fainting if he told anyone.)

_.   .   ._

He was drawing when he heard that same, very precise knock he had come to associate with Phil. He smiled softly, setting his stuff to the side and moving to throw his legs over the side of the bed. He struggled to a stand, holding himself up on the rail until he could feel himself stop swaying. “One second!” He called, before stumbling to the door. He put a hand against the wall by the door to steady himself before turning the knob and pulling it open. “Hi, Ph-Phi-“ A heavy weight collided with his chest, arms wrapping around him and he stumbled backwards. He fell on the floor, stunned and trying to process what was going on. He looked to see a messy head of dark hair buried against his chest, eyes flicking up to see Phil and… A kid? Not really a kid, a teenager, dressed in slim jeans and a plain t-shirt and looking more than a bit lost. But he was smiling, eyes watering.

“Captain, I figured you might like some guests.” Phil said simply, and _oh, it was them._

He suddenly focused on the person clinging to him now with renewed interest, because there was only one person it could be. His husband. It had to be. And the teen was… Their son. His son, standing there staring at him with a watery smile. He slipped an arm around the man against his chest, using the other to push them into a seated position with a little gasping laugh. This person in his arms… This was his husband. It was an odd thing, trying to imagine the person and then suddenly having them there.

He was better than he had imagined.

Once they were both seated up, the other’s face still buried in his chest, he held and arm out to the side, motioning for the teen to come in. There was no hesitance, just another body pressed tightly to his in an instant and holding on tight. He held on just as tightly, being wary of holding on too tightly, though (he still struggled some with his own strength). He had missed them and not even known of their existence but for a couple weeks; he could only imagine how they felt. Three months of not knowing exactly how he was or being able to see him. He would not have been able to handle it in their position.

“ _Steve_ ,” His name fell from his husbands’ lips as a keen, hands wringing in his shirt. “God, Steve.” The other did not look up, but he could hear the rush of his breaths and watch his body shudder with it. _He is panicking. Calm him down._

He took his arm from around the man, forcing him to look up with a quivering hand. He beamed at the sight of those brown eyes, no matter how blood shot. “Hi.” He said softly. “I need you to take a deep breath, okay?” He kept his voice soft, thumb absentmindedly stroking a tear stained cheek. “C-can you do that for me?” He got a jerky nod, watching his husband struggle to slow his breathing. He heard loud breathing beside him, these ones slower and practiced, and he noticed it was his son. He mimicked that, hoping to help calm his husband down.

“In… And out, Tony.” The teen said beside him, barely above a whisper. _Tony._ He would have said it over and over again aloud, tested its weight on his tongue, if he were not more concerned about helping Tony calm down.

 _"_ J-just like h-he said.” He stumbled over the words as he still stroked Tony’s cheek.

Tony sucked in a deep breath. “You didn’t stutter before.”

"F-fell and hi-hit my head pretty hard.” He managed as Tony finally started to calm and relax against him. Both Tony and their son – who he really should ask his name – just stared at him. “T-t-turns out if you slee-sleep with a concussion, you can dev-devel-develop a stutter.” They both finally sat back, not getting off the floor but moving from him. Without them to occupy his arms with, he found himself wringing his hands together. “And mem-memory loss.”

“They say the serum just has yet to fully repair the parts of his brain that were injured by the concussion,” Phil added from the doorway, and he tossed him a quick thankful look. “Although, they do believe it will. His stutter and motor skills have already improved exponentially. It is just a matter of time.” He gave a tiny nod at that. They were hopeful, and his memory had been coming back in little jumbled up pieces over the last couple months. It would just take time.

He did not need time, though, to remember how he felt for the absolutely devastated brunet in his arms. A part of him just _knew_. His heart sped up, and his stomach felt like it was full of butterflies. He just wanted to spend days study the man, drawing him, because even in his saddened state, he was the most gorgeous person Steve had ever seen. He had the thickest eyelashes, framing soft brown eyes. His facial hair was perfectly trimmed and neat, whereas his hair was a dark brown, shaggy mess. His lips were pursed just slightly so, brows furrowed as his brain seemed to work a mile a minute.

Steve could care less about all of his other memories. The memories of the man he married, of this almost surreal person he had the pleasure of calling his (judging by the rings he wore on his left hand, one of which seemed to be the partner to his own), were all he wanted. He wanted to hear the other laugh, amongst other things. He wanted to see that face little up with a smile, or a scowl, or anything really. He just wanted to _know him_. He knew his love, could feel that as sure as anything else in his life. But he did not know his lover, and that was mildly troubling. But, should he never remember, Steve knew one thing for sure.

He would learn all of the little intricacies there were to his husband all over again. Because he had him again, finally, and he did not plan on letting him go any time soon.

Tony’s voice snapped him from his temporary reverie. “But he’ll live, right? And he’ll remember eventually?”

Phil nodded this time, but Steve spoke, and could not help the flutter in his chest when those eyes snapped back to him. “I-I already re-remember some. N-nothing from af-after I crashed, and st-still not a lot from b-b-before. But I am remembering things.” He said slowly, trying to keep himself from stumbling over his words quite so much. He felt self-conscious with the way Tony watched him so intently, brows still furrowed. The other slipped out of his lap, coming to a stand with Peter and offering him a hand to pull him up. Steve huffed some, but took it. “I-I’m not an invalid. My legs work. M-my brain is just struggling t-t-to catch up with everything.”

He found himself face-to-face – not exactly, because he had a few inches on Tony, but close enough – with this dazzling smile, and he just could not help but stare. Tony chuckled some, pulling his hand reluctantly from Steve’s before speaking. “I could never think of you like that. Honestly, I just wanted to touch you.” He gave him an awkward little wink, the action coming off as a tad forced. “Suppose you might like some, uh, catching up on things.” Tony shuffled, and Steve watched as he brought a hand up to run through the hair at the back of his head, tugging gently. It was a nervous action, obviously. It shifted to a simple rub at the back of his neck, Tony likely having caught himself. Steve hated that he would find Tony doing that around him anyway. He did not want to make the other nervous.

“Of course he does, Tony.” Steve’s head snapped to the side where their son was standing, smirking happily at them both. “Peter, by the way. My name is Peter. I’m your son. Adopted, but-“ He cut himself off and shuffled about on the balls of his feet.

They were both so nervous around him. He hated it. Steve just offered him a smile, trying to reassure the teen, and a nod, “I know. Phil told me. He did not leave me _completely_ -“ emphasis on completely, “- in the dark about you both. He told me a lot about you. Although, I’d really like to hear it from you guys. Might help…” He gestured vaguely at his head, looking between the two of them. “Speed things up. Who knows.”

And so the three of them all got situated in Steve’s room, Peter pulling a chair up to his bedside and Tony not even hesitating to sit on the bed with him, one hand latched onto Steve’s the whole time. None of them noticed Phil drop their bags in there and leave, all too caught up in _them_.

It was the most whole Steve had felt since waking up.

.   .   .

It was far from perfect. Steve’s motor skills were still lacking, and he staggered quite a bit when he walked. But he was alive, and that was all Tony could ask for. Even if his husband had little to no memory of him, he still loved him like Tony was the only thing that mattered. He did not deserve it, deserve him. Which only seemed to urge him to drink even more. And he tried resisting for a while, he really did.

Steve gave him this little tiny frown when he showed up to see him, drunk off his ass in the suit. “W-what’re you doin’, Ton’?” He asked softly as he helped Tony out of the suit. Tony just stood there, head falling forward.

"You used to call me that a lot," Tony said. Or, he had meant to say that. It came out as a slurred, grumbled mess. “I miss you.” Steve slipped his arms around him, pulling him back to the bed in Steve’s room. He let the other manhandle him – albeit gently – into the bed, finding himself laying between Steve’s legs. Tony wriggled some, smirking at Steve (he hoped he was smirking. God only knew what his face looked like), “If you wanted me in bed, you could’ve just asked.”

That got him an exasperated sigh and an eye roll. “You know I h-h-have to t-take it easy.” Steve grumbled, one hand finding its way into Tony’s hair and damn him. He probably did not even remember how he used to stick his hand in Tony’s hair and rub his scalp when he had trouble sleeping, or his anxiety was just getting the better of him that day. Tony would do something very similar in return on the few days where Steve just felt hopeless, most of them occurring before Bucky was found; he would rub at the edge of his hairline in the back of his neck to try and relieve the tension that would build up there.

“And you’re drunk.”

Tony would have made a comment about how Steve did not stutter there if not for the large amount of disappointment he heard. He could not say that he blamed Steve for sounding like that. It was understandable. Tony was supposed to be sober. He was supposed to avoid alcohol, to know his limits (the limit as Tony approaches alcohol is zero). But he had gone and fucked it up, just like always. He ruined everything he touched, and didn’t that hurt to consider. If he had never made Ultron, never sided against Steve, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe Steve would not have been shot, and the three of them could be back in the tower. Perhaps he would be able to look at Peter and not see the scar on his lip, or any of the others for that matter, from Rumlow trying to kill him to leave a message. Steve would not be a stuttering, stumbling mess with no memory.

He had, though. Tony had caused all those things, and now he had to live with the consequences. At least Steve was alive.


End file.
